


i couldn't want you any more

by taotu



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Dom Kim Hongjoong, Drunk Sex, M/M, Park Seonghwa is Whipped, Porn with Feelings, lmao there's not much else to it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:46:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28844793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taotu/pseuds/taotu
Summary: Hongjoong is a nondescript, dark silhouette as he stoops to Seonghwa’s level. Seonghwa tries to shake his head, tell him it’s no big deal, but words betray him as Hongjoong cups his face in his hands, palms dry, a bit rough. “You need ice? Fuck, I just kicked you in the fucking face, Seonghwa.”“Yeah,” croaks Seonghwa, “I was there.”
Relationships: Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa
Comments: 10
Kudos: 221





	i couldn't want you any more

**Author's Note:**

> obviously a work of complete fiction!! i don't support shipping idols––just an inspired story! 
> 
> & title from harry styles' sunflower vol. 6 ♥

It’s nearly two in the morning and Kim Hongjoong is feuding with the Uber driver.

Seonghwa’s on his side, obviously—Hongjoong tends to be right about most things worldly—but the driver is going an overzealous fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit through a not-quite-deserted Saturday-night downtown, and if he's this careless with pedestrian lives, Seonghwa can only imagine how little he values the likes of him and Hongjoong—Hongjoong, who is now lighting a fire under this man’s ass.

Hongjoong laughs up front, sharp and sardonic, and Seonghwa looks between the seats just in time to watch the stoplight blink its red glow over Hongjoong’s profile, set his redder hair aflame as he sweeps it back from his eyes. “Just—I just want to make sure I’m hearing this correctly,” says Hongjoong, lifting a palm over the center console, “you think—Seonghwa, what was her name?”

Seonghwa blinks when Hongjoong expectantly glances his way. They’d just dropped off a girl who’d Pooled with them. “Yeri,” he says mechanically, because it was he who’d ordered the car, seen her name on his screen.

“Yeri.” Hongjoong’s head swivels to face the driver again. “You think Yeri was being _hormonal_ , huh? Because she was upset? _Hormonal?”_

Yeri had been crying in the backseat when Hongjoong and Seonghwa had climbed in the Uber. She’d gotten Seonghwa’s jacket a little wet with her tears, but he’d done his best—as in, he’d patted her atop her head.

The driver snorts. “I mean, yeah. Women get like that. You have sex with them _once_ and their body does all this crazy shit, y’know, releasing hormones up and down. Gets them attached as fuck. Whereas you and me—” As he gives Hongjoong a side-eyed once over, he seems to momentarily second-guess his decision to lump himself in the same party. “Y-you and me, man, we can just walk away, y’know. Painless. Sure, we’ll probably think about the sex again, but not about the girl.”

Hongjoong’s lips twitch. His gaze is roaming the dashboard, fingertips pressed to his temple, as if he’s deciding where to begin. “But she… was just broken up with,” he says, tone eerily steady, “by her boyfriend. Of… several months.”

“Exactly.”

Hongjoong squints. “What does that have to do with hormones?!” He laughs, shrill. “They were in a relationship! God forbid she has emotions!”

“She was like, bawling, man,” the driver scoffs. “Hormonal as fuck. I bet her ex didn’t cry like _that_. It’s her estrogen—”

“Oh—oh, god.” Hongjoong claps his hands together, his head bumping the headrest as his neck arches with silent, dramatized laughter. “I have news for you, buddy. Men have estrogen, too. _Humans_ have estrogen.”

The driver emits a choked noise. “What—”

“And you’re a misogynistic piece of shit,” Hongjoong sighs lightly, as if in afterthought, dabbing at the corners of his eyes with his sleeve. He peers out the window suddenly—they’re idling, again, at a red light—then abruptly unbuckles his seatbelt and shoves the door open. Hongjoong is drunk, as is Seonghwa, which is why Seonghwa’s emergency response mode only kicks in when the cold wind of the outdoors whirls in and Hongjoong’s voice seems thin, strangely faraway. “Close enough,” calls Hongjoong, “we can walk the rest of the way.” He slams the door shut, sets off in a confident stride down the sidewalk.

He’d left his jacket in the passenger seat, so in the few seconds that follow, Seonghwa makes awkward, wide-eyed eye contact with the driver through the rearview mirror, then snatches up the jacket, flings the side door open, and clambers out of the car.

The first thing Seonghwa does when he catches up, panting translucent clouds into the frigid air, is lay Hongjoong’s jacket across his shoulders. Hongjoong doesn’t look his way, pinches the front of it shut with his fingers. “Hope he’s not expecting a tip,” he grumbles.

Seonghwa pockets his hands, falls into step beside him. “I won’t give him one.”

“Mm.” Hongjoong’s lips quirk at the corners. “Good.”

Seonghwa’s known Hongjoong for a grand total of three and a half months now. In the spring, he’d put up an ad in a Facebook group for a spot in a double room in a quiet area a bit further from campus than most tended to like. Yeosang was heading to grad school on the opposite coast, Seonghwa had another year of it left, and as much as he wasn’t keen on rifling through Internet strangers for someone who wouldn’t scam him or trash his apartment or smell downright strange or simply wouldn’t provide the same peaceable companionship Yeosang did, his bank account shivered and weeped at the thought of shouldering the full brunt of his rent.

It was how he came across Kim Hongjoong. They met briefly for coffee in April—Hongjoong had arrived with a mullet the color of caramel, a faux-fur vest and both ears heavily bejeweled—and Seonghwa only saw him a second time when he showed up two days before the semester was to begin in late August, hair a silky, shocking red. He’s made Seonghwa feel comparably dull from day one, though it’s by far the tamest of the feelings Kim Hongjoong kindles in him.

Feelings, that is… feelings Seonghwa acts on only in the ways he knows how: moving Hongjoong’s wet laundry from the washer to the dryer when he zooms out the door at midday, likely not to return until midnight; learning to cope with the paradox of Hongjoong’s bed always being rumpled and unmade yet him seemingly never sleeping in it; saying yes, _always_ , when Hongjoong asks for Seonghwa’s company getting coffee or groceries or wine or hunching over their laptops in the library. On the other hand, Yeosang, after a while of only ever hearing _no_ from Seonghwa, had learned it was simpler just not to ask. Seonghwa decides it’s probably for the best that Yeosang is thousands of miles away, oblivious to the field day he could be having with Seonghwa’s futile crush.

Hongjoong hiccuping brings Seonghwa back to the present. “I bet he has erectile dysfunction,” states Hongjoong, tapping his forefinger against empty air. His cheeks puff up trying to swallow his next hiccup, but it only comes back up as a burp, and when Seonghwa stumbles over a seam in the sidewalk with a sudden bark of laughter, Hongjoong whines up at the moon, mortified. He smacks Seonghwa on the arm one, twice. And again. “Park Seonghwa, I’ll kill you,” he tells him grimly, clinging to Seonghwa’s elbow with strong little fingers.

“I didn’t hear a thing,” Seonghwa answers placidly. Hongjoong lifts a lazy eyebrow in response, but his tight-lipped smile and suspicious, narrowed eyes are sweet, sweet like the inch or so of dark root growth on his cherry-red head.

“That’s right.” Hongjoong sighs, another puff into the cold, has to detach from Seonghwa when his jacket starts to slip from his shoulders. “I can’t remember how many shots I took,” he adds offhandedly, nose crinkled. “I never even… I never do that.”

“I have the receipt.” Seonghwa digs around in his jeans pocket.

“Please don’t.” Hongjoong grabs his wrist before he can rummage any further. It’s not a big pocket, but it is goddamn tight. “Save me the shame. I’ll just overestimate when I pay you back.”

Seonghwa unhands his pocket. Hongjoong remains attached to his wrist. Seonghwa doesn’t protest. The wind is brisk, sweeps down the scooped collar of Seonghwa’s shirt. “I didn’t know you liked tequila so much,” mutters Seonghwa.

“Park Seonghwa!” Hongjoong hisses again, which has Seonghwa smirking. “We were _celebrating_.” Which is true. It’s the end of the fall semester. Seonghwa had turned in his last paper earlier that afternoon.

“I guess. But I was convinced you were trying to forget the entire last week. Or month. Or forget that you ever lived with me at all.”

“Oh my god,” Hongjoong moans, smashing his face into the smooth leather clothing Seonghwa’s shoulder. “How much was your fucking tab?”

“I thought you didn’t want to know?” Seonghwa chuckles. “Anyway, that rando cut me a break when he swooped in to buy you all those drinks.”

“I don’t even remember his name.” Hongjoong tries to look guilty, but his pouting downright fails. His smile is smug at the edges. “His taste in drinks was gross, anyway. I let Wooyoung have them all when he wasn’t looking.” Hongjoong straightens, then, and pulls out his phone. “Speaking of Wooyoung… I should check he got home safe…”

There’s two more minutes of uphill. The chill of the air is sinking down to Seonghwa’s bones. They pass by a building with a window thrown open on the third floor, the light inside oscillating between electric green and purple. Someone leans over the balcony railing, smoking. They wave silently at Seonghwa. He smiles to himself, slides a hand onto the small of Hongjoong’s back under his jacket because he’s feeling brave, apparently. Hongjoong is knee-deep in text-conversation with Wooyoung about so-and-so mutual friend Wooyoung wants to bang and Seonghwa’s never met.

Seonghwa unlocks the door to the apartment, stands aside to let Hongjoong shuffle in first, eyes glued to his screen. When he shuts the door behind him, slides every lock into place, he turns to find Hongjoong watching him in the tight space, phone gone, and the only light that reaches the shiny surfaces of his eyes comes from deep within the apartment, the living room lamp Seonghwa had left on anticipating they’d only hurt themselves stumbling into the pitch-black. And also because they live on the first floor… so, like, robbers and shit.

“Seonghwa.” Hongjoong juts out his lower lip. He leans back against the wall opposite. Seonghwa arches a brow, and Hongjoong murmurs, “Untie my boots,” smile sly and wheedling.

Seonghwa coughs out a quiet laugh, but lowers to a squat, silent but for the crack of his joints in the stillness of the hallway. He imagines Yeosang standing in a nearby dark corner with his hip cocked, sipping coffee from his signature overlarge mug he took with him when he moved, chuckling and calling out hoarsely, “ _Simp_.”

Seonghwa shakes his head, undoes the laces on both of Hongjoong’s heavy boots. Hongjoong shifts his weight when Seonghwa goes for his one foot and tugs at the immovable boot by the heel. It doesn’t budge. Seonghwa peers defeatedly up at Hongjoong, then quickly decides against it, because the angle is far, _far_ too much.

“Again,” urges Hongjoong, wiggling his ankle in Seonghwa’s grip. “One, _two_ —”

Hongjoong jerks his foot so it cracks Seonghwa in the jaw.

Hongjoong’s hands whip up to cover his mouth. Seonghwa rocks in reverse off his heels, back hitting the door, and slides down the few remaining inches until his ass is on the floor, jaw ajar mostly with shock.

“Fuck,” breathes Hongjoong. “Fuck, fuck. I’m sorry.” He’s a nondescript, dark silhouette as he stoops to Seonghwa’s level. Seonghwa tries to shake his head, tell him it’s no big deal, but words betray him as Hongjoong cups his face in his hands, palms dry, a bit rough. “You need ice? Fuck, I just kicked you in the fucking face, Seonghwa.”

“Yeah,” croaks Seonghwa, “I was there.”

Hongjoong is silent. Then he laughs, soft and warm, so warm close to Seonghwa’s face, where the feeling is just starting to return after what felt like ages trudging through the cold but was likely just three blocks’ worth of lazy ambling. “Sorry,” mumbles Hongjoong again. His thumb strokes Seonghwa’s cheek, and there’s two soft thumps as he gets to his knees. “Where—where did I—?” He drags the tip of his thumb over Seonghwa’s jaw, as if it’d be swollen and bruising already. And he leans in and soothingly brushes his lips there as if to make it all better, right near Seonghwa’s chin, not quite where it smarts but that’s hardly on Seonghwa’s mind.

Seonghwa holds his breath. He means to sit up, just an inch, so he isn’t collapsed against the door like a boneless fool, but Hongjoong’s still holding his jaw tenderly, and then he’s touching their foreheads, whispering, “Is this okay?” like it isn’t both the _okay_ est and the _absolutely not okay_ est Seonghwa’s been since August twenty-seventh.

And Seonghwa doesn’t want to push his luck, because… for all he knows, Hongjoong’s just asking permission to be close to Seonghwa like this, close like they never truly are. It’s reasonable. It’s nice. Hongjoong isn’t touchy often, just out of nature. Seonghwa nods his _okay_ and hears, rather than sees, Hongjoong lick his lips, inhale shallowly. And then Seonghwa’s being kissed, and Hongjoong is warmth and tequila and lime and his knees are lodged between Seonghwa’s spread legs.

And this—this is _really_ okay, too. But it’s also not, because he never drinks with Hongjoong unless it’s a glass of wine over a dinner Seonghwa made that he, for once, doesn’t have to cram into tupperware for Hongjoong to grab on his perpetual way out the door. And earlier that night, Hongjoong had linked elbows with Seonghwa to throw back shot after shot until the bartender had run out of fresh limes to cut into wedges. The citrus had begun to sting Seonghwa’s lips by then, and he’d watched as she topped their shots with lime juice out of a bottle. Hongjoong had been delighted, cheered her on and clapped his hands so close to his rosy mouth.

And now he’s holding Seonghwa’s face like he’s hungry for it, _this_ , when Seonghwa hasn’t kissed anyone since late last winter when Yeosang had announced the renaissance of his _hoe phase_ and dragged Seonghwa out drinking. Seonghwa’d woken up the next morning in the bed of the girls’ swim team captain, and when he’d slipped from under the covers in search of the bathroom, he’d run into Yeosang: a mirror image of himself, clad only in boxers and ducking out of her housemate’s room. Yeosang continues to find endless amusement in said anecdote, but Seonghwa prefers not to talk about it, much less think about it. If he rightly remembers any shreds of their conversation, he thinks she’d qualified for the Olympics. No wonder he’d been bruised for nearly a week after.

She… had been far too good for him, even as a one-night stand. And there’s no doubt in Seonghwa’s mind that Kim Hongjoong is the same, no matter the circumstances. Too good, that is; smart, beautiful, charming, musically inclined. Eloquent. Even his tongue is eloquent where it’s dipping into the seam of Seonghwa’s lips, and Seonghwa lets it in, feels Hongjoong’s tongue on his own. He’s vaguely worried he’s forgotten how to kiss when Hongjoong draws back with palms spread on Seonghwa’s chest under his jacket, but it’s only to mumble, “You sure it’s okay?” like Seonghwa isn’t teeming with intoxication by just _him_.

When Seonghwa whispers, “Of course,” like a fucking idiot, Hongjoong smiles, and while it’s so dark Seonghwa barely sees his teeth, he can imagine the way his eyes turn to precious crescents. He’s seen it enough, dwelled on it enough.

“Mkay.” Hongjoong laughs, gentle and heartrending, and strokes his hands down Seonghwa’s cheeks to his neck and down to his chest again, pressing the heels of his hands firm into Seonghwa’s pecs. It makes Seonghwa shudder, and Hongjoong uses him for balance as he climbs over Seonghwa’s legs, sits more blatantly in his lap. And then, in a bout of more discordance than the silent hallway’s heard in hours, they both speak at once in hushed tones.

“Seonghwa—”

“Joong—”

Hongjoong chuckles, settles his weight in the cradle of Seonghwa’s hips. “You first.”

Seonghwa gulps. His palms are cold on the cold floor. “Maybe we should sober up.”

“You have no idea how fast that Uber driver’s sexist headass sobered me up.” Hongjoong snorts. Then he traces his fingertip around the perimeter of Seonghwa’s face, from his hairline to his chin. “Do you… not feel okay?”

“No,” Seonghwa breathes, “I mean—I do. I feel fine.” A bit buzzed still, maybe, but it could be because he’s got a lapful of Kim Hongjoong. “I feel good.”

“Good?” Hongjoong echoes, lips quirked. “Me too.”

Seonghwa watches him, overly aware of the rise and fall of his own chest. “I just—”

“You don’t want me to do anything I’ll regret tomorrow,” Hongjoong deadpans. When Seonghwa finally nods in confirmation—some platitudes are platitudes for a reason—Hongjoong looks down to where his palms still rest on Seonghwa’s chest. “Seonghwa, the only thing I’d regret tomorrow is... coming onto you, like. If you didn’t want it.”

“Want what?” he says dumbly, too quickly.

Hongjoong toys with the collar of his shirt. Seonghwa can’t read into his every microexpression when they’re sat in the dark like this, so it comes as a surprise when Hongjoong ducks close, warmly kisses Seonghwa on the side of his neck. Then again a bit higher, higher, until his teeth clink the metal of Seonghwa’s earring as he mumbles headily, “This.”

Seonghwa’s head bumps against the door. His eyes are half-lidded, he notices belatedly, not that he can see much to begin with, and his last few breaths come audibly ragged. Then he realizes something. “I need to wash my hands,” he utters.

Hongjoong seems hesitant, like he thinks Seonghwa’s brushing him off, which he might as well be, for how fucking inept he is at conveying his thoughts. “Um…”

“Sorry,” Seonghwa says, “it’s—we were just out all night, and in some stranger’s car, and I touched the seatbelt and the door and now our doorknob and…” He half-grimaces. “I don’t want to touch you with dirty hands.” It’d be like vandalizing something consecrated, sullying Hongjoong’s bare skin.

Just the thought of Hongjoong’s skin makes his pulse go wild.

Hongjoong makes a soft noise, maybe a huff of amusement. And as he stands, still in those boots they’d never managed to get off, his jacket falls from his shoulders to the floor and he holds his hands out for Seonghwa to take.

“Well, come on, then,” he murmurs, and Seonghwa needs no help getting up, but he won’t pass up the chance to latch onto Hongjoong’s hands only to do all the work himself. He knows he must be blushing all the way to the tips of his ears, luckily swallowed up by the darkness, and there’s likely fluster written all over his features, but Hongjoong only takes him by the elbows, turns him around, gives him an encouraging shove in the direction of the bathroom. “I’ll meet you in there.”

The overhead LEDs are blinding when Seonghwa flicks them on, and he has the pleasure of seeing himself squint unattractively in the mirror, most of his makeup sweated off hours ago. Hongjoong nudges his way in through the cracked door, a glass of water in each hand, and offers one to Seonghwa with a bashful sort of chuckle. Seonghwa takes it with a quiet _thanks_ , and then it’s just the two of them, standing at the bright white sink, each watching the other drink through the mirrored cabinet. And it’s absolutely devastating, Seonghwa thinks, the way Hongjoong’s eyes are so conspiratorially mirthful. Seonghwa knows he’s not the greatest at inside jokes yet Hongjoong always manages to make him feel like they’re sharing something special and secret and only theirs, even if it’s just in the way he catches Seonghwa’s eye when they’re studying together or tucks Seonghwa’s tag into his shirt when it’s sticking out.

His eyes track Hongjoong as he sets his glass on the counter and wets his hands in the sink, soaps them up. He’s always so gorgeous, but now there’s a peachy tint to his eyelids and his lips and it’s December but his long-sleeve is white and thin and, back at the bar, kept falling to expose his shoulder whenever he moved too vigorously, too excitedly, drawing Seonghwa’s eyes like some soft, golden magnet.

“Your turn.” Hongjoong turns to lean against the bathroom door and it shuts under his weight with a soft _click_. Seonghwa nods, heart suddenly in his throat, and he sudses his hands twice, like he always would, just perhaps more frantically knowing Hongjoong’s watching him.

Once he’s toweled his hands, there’s nowhere to go. Not that Seonghwa really wants to escape, though his hammering heart is telling him otherwise. Hongjoong blocks the doorway, eyeing him expressionlessly. Then he pushes off and he’s in front of Seonghwa within a step and a half—their bathroom is small. “Feel better?” He smiles, and when Seonghwa silently tips his chin, Hongjoong sighs, takes it between his fingers. “You’re cute, Seonghwa.”

“Cute?” Seonghwa rasps.

“You’re other things, too,” Hongjoong hums, and he slides Seonghwa’s leather jacket off his shoulders, folds it, lays it over an empty spot on the towel bar. “But you never told me.”

Another quiet, stupid question-as-an-answer: “Told you what?”

Hongjoong’s lips pinch together in a little smile that melts Seonghwa at his very core. He’s eyeing Seonghwa’s chest, hands tucked up close to his own heart, fingers running the line of his collarbone. “If you want… this.”

Seonghwa takes him in. Bright hair, warm eyes, nails bitten down to the quick but for the single painted one. There’s probably a million different poetic ways to say _how could I possibly not_ , but Seonghwa, floundering, only mutters, “I’ve kind of wanted to kiss you since we first met up in April and you bought me a matcha latte.”

Hongjoong hesitates. “I bought you matcha?” He blinks, incredulous. “But you hate matcha!”

Seonghwa exhales a soft laugh. “I know.”

“So do I,” huffs Hongjoong, “ _now_.” He’s not meeting Seonghwa’s eyes, fingertips still skimming his collarbone, rubbing the skin pink. “Well, I…” He licks his lips, sets his jaw determinedly. “I kissed you last, so.” His shoulders kick in a shrug. “It’s your turn.”

“That’s fair,” says Seonghwa. He watches Hongjoong long enough to see him break into a grin, eyes cast down. Even more so now, Seonghwa decides, he’d choke down a matcha latte or twenty if he thought it’d make Hongjoong happy.

With careful hands on Hongjoong’s shoulders, he nudges him up against the wall and bows in close, Hongjoong’s eyelashes aflutter all over his field of vision, though he doesn’t even get to fulfill his end of the bargain because Hongjoong winds his arms around Seonghwa’s neck and leans up to meet his lips breathlessly.

Seonghwa has a few inches on Hongjoong, but he feels like he’s at the same level, or below him, even, as Hongjoong leans on his tiptoes in his thick-soled boots, deliberately bears down on Seonghwa’s shoulders. He scrapes his teeth over Seonghwa’s bottom lip, and breathes, “You can touch me now, can’t you?” to which Seonghwa rapidly nods. “Then do it.”

Seonghwa’s head goes fuzzy and hot. He drops his hands to Hongjoong’s waist, soft through the fabric of his top, and gasps brokenly when Hongjoong’s fingers curl into the back of his hair, holding him taut. Then Hongjoong smiles against his lips, kisses him in soft, gentle pecks until he’s panting into Seonghwa’s mouth, curling his tongue in again.

Seonghwa lets himself be kissed, savors it. And when Hongjoong pulls back, drags Seonghwa down toward his neck, Seonghwa’s all too grateful to breathe him in—so sweet, a little powdery, sweat-sticky from the bar—and pepper Hongjoong’s skin with appreciation, licking him and tasting him but never biting.

“Cute, Seonghwa,” Hongjoong whispers again, stroking the back of his head. Then Seonghwa buckles a bit, because Hongjoong’s wedged a knee between his legs, pressing his thigh up into Seonghwa’s crotch with that same, intent strength he draws up from somewhere in his little body. Seonghwa’s hips jerk against it, mindless and dopey, but when Hongjoong chuckles and praises, “There you go,” he doesn’t feel quite so dumb. He feels… good. He lays a kiss to the junction of Hongjoong’s neck and shoulder, shudders on an inhale when Hongjoong curls his fingers over Seonghwa’s ass, guides him encouragingly.

“You wanna make me feel good, baby?” Hongjoong whispers in his ear. Seonghwa’s eyes are squeezed shut—he’s so hard now and his jeans are so fucking tight—but he responds, “Please,” so instinctively he can’t be sure if was just a thought. A tremor goes down his spine—yes. _Baby_.

Seonghwa still clings to Hongjoong’s waist as the latter relaxes his leg, draws Seonghwa in so their hips align. Hongjoong snakes a hand between them, feels at the shape of Seonghwa’s cock through his jeans, sighs softly. “Always thought you’d be big,” murmurs Hongjoong. Heat creeps up from Seonghwa’s chest to his face, and when he lifts his head tentatively, Hongjoong meets his eyes, strokes a gentle hand over his cheek. “You okay?” Hongjoong bats his pretty eyes, lifts those expressive eyebrows of his. “Sleepy yet?”

Seonghwa shakes his head, watching Hongjoong’s lips. He gets a peek of Hongjoong’s teeth when he smiles, asks, “Gonna suck my cock?”

Seonghwa swallows hard, swears he’d drip drool over the bathroom floor if he didn’t. Vaguely, he feels like he’s stepped into a wet dream. He neglects to answer, just gets to his knees instead, thrown by a wave of déjà vu to perhaps ten minutes earlier. Hongjoong’s laces are untied, and he spends a second just looking at them, follows the lines of Hongjoong’s legs all the way up. He catches Hongjoong glancing at himself in the mirror, messing with his hair, which makes Seonghwa’s stomach swoop unreasonably. Hongjoong hides nothing, though, just sighs and looks down at Seonghwa, smile almost magnanimous.

“You’re,” Seonghwa starts, and, oh god, _why is he speaking?_ And now he has to finish, for fuck’s sake. “Um…” He gives a self-conscious laugh, palms resting on the tops of Hongjoong’s boots. “You’re so hot like this. I mean—you _are_ all the time—but, just…”

Hongjoong pets his hair, cards his fingers through it. It feels so nice that Seonghwa’s eyelids get heavy. “You’re always so nice to me, Seonghwa,” he purrs quietly, and Seonghwa watches dizzily as he kneads and squeezes his own bulge inches from Seonghwa’s face. He shouldn’t have to lift a finger, unless he’d like to.

Seonghwa pops the button on Hongjoong’s jeans, rolls down the zipper. Has to wonder again if he’s dreaming when he gets to see the soft skin of Hongjoong’s belly so close, can’t quite stop himself from nuzzling in and kissing him there wetly. His smell is dizzying there, too, and Seonghwa’s fingers move to get his cock out just as Hongjoong’s fingers curl into the hair at the base of his neck.

“You can…” Seonghwa clears his throat. His eyes are closed, he realizes, and he blinks them open and breathes deep. He’s leaking a nasty wet spot into his briefs but Kim Hongjoong’s cock is thick and pink and right fucking _there_ , and god, he could pass out. “Use me,” he finishes belatedly.

Hongjoong laughs. “What was that, baby?”

“Use me,” Seonghwa says more urgently, peers up at Hongjoong as he runs his palms up his tight thighs. Hongjoong’s easy smile fades slightly, and that won’t do, so Seonghwa wraps his fingers around his cock and takes him in his mouth.

“That’s—what I thought you said— _oh_ ,” Hongjoong grits out. He gets a grip on Seonghwa’s hair again. Seonghwa’s too enthusiastic, gags too soon, but Hongjoong moans in soft approval. Above Seonghwa, he’s arching his back from the wall, shirt riding up his stomach as he runs his hand through his hair, probably catches his own eye in the mirror again. “Park Seonghwa,” Hongjoong mumbles, hand firm on Seonghwa’s head as he sucks him, gets him as wet as he can, “if I knew you sucked cock like this, I would’ve…” He laughs, shakes his head. “Dunno what I would’ve done. Already always flirted with you so hard.”

Seonghwa feels a bit like he has to rethink every interaction he’s ever had with Hongjoong, but that can wait. There’s something ridiculously hot to him about the fact that Hongjoong can watch his own face as he gets off in Seonghwa’s mouth. But it means he has to be _good_. Wants to be. And he’s glad for it when Hongjoong shows him how—cradles his head, encourages Seonghwa to go pliant, works his hips to fuck into Seonghwa’s throat.

“Baby,” breathes Hongjoong, “Seonghwa…” Seonghwa’s eyes are shut, a bit wet, but he can hear the praise in Hongjoong’s voice. “Your lips, fuck.” He feels Hongjoong thumb over the corner of his mouth, where it’s also wet, dripping. Maybe he’ll still end up drooling on the bathroom floor. Saturday mornings are for cleaning, anyway.

Seonghwa’s head feels heavy. He wants to touch himself, but can’t bring himself to, not when he has Hongjoong’s thighs there to knead at, his soft waist and tummy there to pet. God, Seonghwa wants to see him naked.

“Wan’me to come in your mouth, hm?” Hongjoong whispers, jerks Seonghwa’s head back by the hair so he’s looking up. “C’mon, baby, tell me.” Then, a split-second later, “God, fucking look at you, fuck.” He strokes Seonghwa’s hair from his forehead. Hongjoong’s hair is mussed from his own hands. Seonghwa wants him so bad, and he already has him. Hongjoong’s grip loosens, and his dick slips from Seonghwa’s mouth.

“Yeah.” Seonghwa knows and simultaneously doesn’t care if he seems frenzied as he rucks Hongjoong’s shirt up, dick sliding over his cheek as he leans up, kisses Hongjoong’s navel, runs his palms all the way up to his ribs. “Come—down my throat. Please.”

“Mkay.” Hongjoong gazes at him a moment, unreadable, dark. He pitches his weight forward, grips the edge of the sink with one hand, Seonghwa’s hair with the other. “Open up,” he half-chuckles, and Seonghwa obeys.

Hongjoong fucks his face so raw Seonghwa thanks his lucky stars the semester’s over and he doesn’t have little history undergrads to teach or a professor to meet with the next day. He thinks he’s soaked through his briefs to the thick material of his jeans, and when his throat contracts again around Hongjoong, he hears him swear up above, pictures his tight-knuckled grip on the sink. His eyes roll back behind his eyelids, and Hongjoong thrusts in so Seonghwa’s nose grazes his groin, comes with the prettiest whimper, so deep Seonghwa coughs but hardly tastes a thing. He wouldn’t have minded.

When Hongjoong finally releases him, Seonghwa sags against the sink cabinets, catching his breath. Hazily, he watches Hongjoong tuck his soft, wet cock back in his briefs, but he doesn’t do up his jeans. Seonghwa wants him, still. So badly. Having him once isn’t the cure, it seems.

Hongjoong kneels between Seonghwa’s legs. Again. He holds Seonghwa’s sticky face, kisses over his eyelids, his nose, licks over his messy lips and into his mouth.

“Did you,” Seonghwa says, sounding drunk though by now, he thinks he’s not. “Did you, um…”

Hongjoong kisses his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “Hm?”

“Watch yourself come.” In the mirror, Seonghwa means. He swallows dryly. He could use the rest of that water, wherever it is.

Hongjoong’s looking at him when he opens his eyes. He smiles crookedly. “Kind of,” he answers, just on the side of sheepish, “accidentally.”

“Accidentally?” Seonghwa raises a brow. Hongjoong only chuckles and gives his chin a fond pinch. Seonghwa drops his head against the cabinets. “That’s so hot.”

Hongjoong wipes Seonghwa’s chin with his sleeve, kisses him lightly to follow, hooks a finger in the collar of Seonghwa’s shirt. Seonghwa didn’t even orgasm and yet he feels like he’s not totally back in his body yet, watching Hongjoong’s every movement with a slack sort of awareness.

“Seonghwa, I’m gonna…” Hongjoong begins softly, walking his fingertips up Seonghwa’s sternum. “Gonna go in our room. Get myself opened up for you. So you can fuck me, hm?” His eyes flicker to Seonghwa’s crotch. “Would you like that?”

Seonghwa both gawks and smiles, both out of disbelief. “Seriously?”

“Unless you came in your pants,” mutters Hongjoong, lips pursed. He looks back up, questioning.

Seonghwa shakes his head. The strain of his jeans is a dull pain he’s been resolutely ignoring.

Hongjoong watches. Tongues over his lower lip. “You wanna fuck me?”

“Please,” whispers Seonghwa.

Hongjoong smiles. “So polite.” He tweaks Seonghwa’s cheek, gets to his feet, and leaves him on the bathroom floor, boots squeaking down the hall. Seonghwa wonders if he imagines the exaggerated sway to Hongjoong’s hips.

When he scrapes himself off the floor and checks his phone in his jacket pocket, it’s almost three. And in the mirror, he’s even more of a mess than before, but to his chagrin, it makes his dick jerk in its tight confines. He has to roll his eyes at himself.

Seonghwa washes up, gargles mouthwash, downs the rest of the water in his glass. Takes Hongjoong’s glass with him, should he want it.

He has to brace himself as he reaches the bedroom door. It’s only cracked slightly, so he can’t see in, but as he tips his forehead against the doorframe and shuts his eyes, he takes a steadying breath, pictures what he’ll see when he goes in as if to soften the impact. His own twin bed, crammed into the nearest corner, neatly made and untouched since his early alarm; Yeosang’s old double which he’s come to think of as just Hongjoong’s, likely not. Mindlessly, he palms himself. Hongjoong’s never once sexiled him from their apartment—Seonghwa thinks back to sitting in the library until it closed when Yeosang would—but that doesn’t mean Seonghwa’s never thought about what it’d look like, whatever’s behind the door right now.

His fingers clench around the glass. That’s when his ears catch the soft panting.

Seonghwa nudges the door. It creaks on its hinges.

Hongjoong’s bed is pushed up against the windows at the far end of the room. The shades aren’t drawn, which means a number of things—that the yellowy glow from the parking lot lights bleeds in; that anyone could walk by and get a fucking eyeful. First floor things.

One of Hongjoong’s boots is by Seonghwa’s feet, the other askew in the middle of the carpet. Hongjoong’s taken off his clothes, looks soft and lithe on his back on the white sheets, skin catching and absorbing the half-light. His one hand rests palm-up by his face, the other tucked between his spread legs. Seonghwa sets the glass down on his nightstand, burning.

“Seonghwa,” Hongjoong implores quietly. Seonghwa feels his knees go weak. Hongjoong smiles at him, rubs his free hand over a nipple, sighs deeply as his back lifts from the bed in a C-shape. It’s a touch angelic, a lot sinful. “Got condoms, baby?”

Seonghwa nods mutely. Harried, he kneels by his nightstand, has to check the expiration date on the condom box out of paranoia, and swipes one before he shuts the bedroom door and approaches Hongjoong’s bed, walking on his tiptoes. He thinks he might pass out just looking at him—hair splayed on the pillow, half-hard cock resting against his creamy thigh, taper to his soft waist, dreamy little smile on his mouth.

“You didn’t have to,” Seonghwa says when he finds words. He’s still wearing his shoes—god, he’s probably tracked the entire neighborhood in. He toes out of them, gestures with vague fingers. “I could’ve…”

“What? Prepped me?” Hongjoong bites the tip of his tongue, lets it go. “I know. But I was impatient.” He smiles again, sweet and lazy. “I don’t do this for everyone, Seonghwa.”

“Oh.” Seonghwa swallows, heart lurching.

Hongjoong pinches at his nipple again, breathes out shakily. “You’re so cute,” he whispers. “Take… take off your clothes for me.” Seonghwa finally lets his eyes stray between Hongjoong’s legs, where he’s scissoring in two fingers, watches his heel drag over the sheets and crinkle them. “Gonna fuck myself really good on your cock, baby.”

Riveted, Seonghwa’s a beat late when he goes to tug his shirt over his head, peel his jeans down his legs.

Hongjoong exhales a soft laugh. “Wait,” he says, and Seonghwa’s fingers stall at the waistband of his briefs. “C’mere.” So Seonghwa crawls onto the bed, further and further up until Hongjoong seems satisfied. He lays on his side, watches Hongjoong’s face, and Hongjoong brushes his fingers down Seonghwa’s abdomen, cups him through his briefs. “So wet,” he coos, and Seonghwa feels his cheeks afire, and yet can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed as he nestles up against Hongjoong’s side, noses into his shoulder and strokes a hand across his tummy and up and down his inner thigh, down between his legs. There’s lube on Hongjoong’s rim that he gathers and presses back inside him with his own finger, nestled up next to Hongjoong’s own, and it makes Hongjoong whine something heavenly right near Seonghwa’s ear. Seonghwa gets up on his elbow to kiss him, suck on his tongue when Hongjoong pushes it in his mouth. But then it’s gone, and Hongjoong’s hand is at his chest.

“Now,” he tells Seonghwa softly, locks eyes with him. “Want you now.” His fingers trace a line from Seonghwa’s throat to the arch of his rib cage.

Seonghwa lays his temple to the pillow beside Hongjoong’s head. He’s still got a finger inside him, but his brows crinkle pitiably when Hongjoong eases out his own along with Seonghwa’s. “How… how do you want me?” mumbles Seonghwa, voice tenuous. His briefs are soaked.

Hongjoong’s fingers crook under his chin. “You ever thought about this, Seonghwa?” Hongjoong asks, lilting and light. “Us? Like this?”

Seonghwa hesitates. Jerks his head in a nod. In wakefulness, in sleep.

“Hm.” Hongjoong gives him that lethargic smile, tongue peeking between his teeth. “Show me what you thought about.”

“There’re… many,” Seonghwa breathes. Many things. Three and a half months spent in the company of a dull thesis advisor and the dull library stacks left lots of room for fantasy.

Hongjoong laughs, musical and squinty-eyed. “Pick one.”

Seonghwa sits up, nerves like live wires, wonders if he looks as much of a wreck as the havoc Hongjoong’s wreaking on his insides. It’s not fair, not when he’s laying there like Venus in an oil painting, giving himself to Seonghwa. But when Seonghwa gets between his legs, Hongjoong sticks his foot into Seonghwa’s shoulder.

“Condom, baby,” he reminds him.

Right. Seonghwa glances toward the floor, wonders where he’s misplaced it, but instead of getting up, he runs his hand gingerly up Hongjoong’s calf. Hongjoong’s given him the excuse before that his showers are so long because he puts so much care into shaving, but he mustn’t have had the time recently. Seonghwa kisses his ankle, the top of his foot, and Hongjoong flinches ticklishly. It brings a smile to Seonghwa’s lips, and it should worry him, the fact that he’d quite literally suck Hongjoong’s toes if he only asked.

 _Christ_. Right, the condom. Seonghwa finds the packet on the floor under his jeans and steps clumsily out of his briefs.

“When did you think about us, Seonghwa?” Hongjoong’s eyeing him with something like appreciation, stroking his own cock loosely with the hand he’d had inside himself. He smiles, then, as if he can read Seonghwa’s mind. “Don’t be vague. Talk to me.”

Seonghwa gets on his knees on the bed, pinches the tip of the condom and unrolls it over his cock, hissing a breath between his teeth. It’s the first time he’s touched himself all night, skin to skin. He blinks quickly, remembers Hongjoong’s asked him a question, and racks his brain, exhales a clipped breath. Three mornings ago, when he’d woken to his alarm and spotted Hongjoong across the room, dead asleep atop his covers, glasses still on, music theory book splayed over his stomach with the pages crumpled, he’d wanted nothing more than to tuck him under the covers, join him beneath, hold him until he warmed up because their heater had been fucked and a repairman had only come by yesterday. Instead, he’d just taken off his glasses for him, closed his book, and covered him with a throw. But Seonghwa thinks that’s not quite the reverie Hongjoong’s looking for.

He knee-walks between Hongjoong’s legs, dares to look him in the eye. Hongjoong’s heavy gaze is a gut-punch every damn time. “I was proctoring an exam,” Seonghwa says slowly, and Hongjoong’s eyebrows drift up his forehead, head thrown back with a sudden laugh. “I was really tired,” he adds mock-defensively, a quirk to his mouth as he presses his hands into the backs of Hongjoong’s thighs, then the backs of his knees, bending them in toward his chest. “I’d been… up the whole night. Working. You hadn’t been home in a while, it was that week you crashed at Wooyoung’s place, like, a few nights in a row…” He watches, mesmerized, as Hongjoong hooks his hands under his own knees.

“He lives close to the studio,” offers Hongjoong, but his voice isn’t all there, and it cracks a bit. Seonghwa swallows. Hongjoong’s hole clenches around nothing.

“Right.” Seonghwa finds the lube he’d been using, relieved his fingers don’t shake the way he expects them to.

“Seonghwa,” Hongjoong breathes, urgent.

Seonghwa nods, curls his fingers over Hongjoong’s hip, slicks up his cock, then goes to tease his thumb at Hongjoong’s rim because he can. “I think about you a lot,” Seonghwa says, eyes evasive, “even when you’re not there.”

Hongjoong hums his reassurance. He puckers tight around Seonghwa’s thumb, lets out a breath. “ _Seonghwa_ —”

“So I was sitting behind the desk,” murmurs Seonghwa, head foggy, as he plants a hand on the mattress by Hongjoong’s side, shifts forth so Hongjoong’s calves rest on his shoulder blades, “while my students wrote their essays, and…” He briefly falters when Hongjoong cradles his cheek. “I was…” He peers down between Hongjoong’s thighs, grips the base of his cock, presses inside him with a grunt, just the head. “Just… thinking about taking you. On that desk.”

Hongjoong mewls, shameless and scratchy, grips the back of Seonghwa’s neck to pull him down close, or perhaps just to encourage him to bottom out. Seonghwa realizes he’s sweating, probably leaves a smear of his own sweat on Hongjoong’s forehead when he touches theirs together. “You’re…” he breathes, but Hongjoong cuts him off, nails grazing the back of Seonghwa’s neck.

“You just fill me up so good,” whispers Hongjoong, a blur in the dark before Seonghwa’s eyes. Seonghwa feels gentle fingers skim the shell of his ear. “But I want you to make me feel it. Know you can, baby.”

Seonghwa admires Hongjoong’s confidence in him. Or then it just couldn’t be more obvious he’d cater to Hongjoong’s every desire.

Hongjoong circles Seonghwa’s neck with his arms, Seonghwa drops his forehead to Hongjoong’s shoulder, and they _fit_ , thinks Seonghwa distantly, as he pumps into Hongjoong, faster when he tells him so, harder when he tells him so.

“‘M… not gonna last,” Seonghwa exhales, breath hot and wet on Hongjoong’s skin, but Hongjoong only pets his hair, murmurs for him to get on his back.

When Hongjoong gets on top, Seonghwa’s so overwhelmed nearly doesn’t know what to do with himself. Hongjoong pushes him down, has him stay put while he squeezes around Seonghwa, bounces enough to bring the old bed’s springs back to life and have them squeaking under their combined weight. And Seonghwa pets his thighs and his waist and hips reverently, thumbs into his belly button, and when Hongjoong leans down to laughingly kiss him because something somewhere between their bodies made _some_ weird noise, Seonghwa swears he didn’t even hear it over the buzzing between his temples. His hands clamp down on Hongjoong’s ass when he comes, and as he’s regaining his breath, Hongjoong crawls over him, tongues into his mouth and tells him sweetly, “Touch me.”

Seonghwa knows he’s left smears of lube all over Hongjoong’s body, could do with a thorough shower himself, and that he probably won’t stop thinking about the condom Hongjoong had tied and tossed to the floor until it’s in the dumpster outside. But also knows he can’t possibly move, not now that Hongjoong’s got his hand over Seonghwa’s heart, cheek on Seonghwa’s shoulder, sleepy eyelids opening and closing again in longer and longer intervals each time. The parking lot lights illuminate their skin where they’re sweaty and joined, and when Hongjoong burrows into him for warmth, Seonghwa does a lousy job of spreading over them the throw he’d left on Hongjoong’s bed days earlier.

He’s just shutting his eyes to the feeling of Hongjoong’s sleepy lips on his collarbone when he hears a familiar voice outside.

“I just saw you ten minutes ago. You think I’d get mugged in _ten minutes?”_ A scoff. “Fuck you. I’m home now, anyway. And I could take them, bitch! My fists are… cruising for a bruising, as they say.” A chuckle. “No, I don’t know what it’s from. Maybe a movie. Ohhh, shit, wait. Holy shit.” The voice stalls right outside their window, and when Seonghwa turns his head, it’s to see Jongho on the sidewalk, phone held to his ear, head haloed by the glaring parking lot lights. He beams manically at Seonghwa, holds out a thumbs up, then takes off in a sprint as Seonghwa whips the curtain shut in exasperation.

Jongho’s voice carries even as he retreats. “ _No_ , I’m not getting mugged! But—listen, listen, Mingi, dude, you’ll never guess—you owe me so much fucking money. God, _finally_.”

Seonghwa stares at the window, jaw agape. Then Hongjoong, apparently not as asleep as Seonghwa had thought, flings a leg over Seonghwa’s waist and laughs with glee into his neck.


End file.
